Oasis
by Elizabeth Rowandale
Summary: Scully invites Mulder to a family dinner at her apartment, indulges in some wine, and a bit of intimate talk in front of the fire ensues. Early Season 5.


**DISCLAIMER:** It all belongs to Chris and Co. I just use and abuse these beautiful people out of love.  
 **TIMELINE:** Early Season 5  
 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** A Secret Santa Fic for Nicole/gaycrouton/OnlyTheInevitable. Written for the prompt: "Mulder dealing with a drunk, flirty, touchy Scully." This may not be exactly what you were imagining with your prompt, and it probably turned more serious than you intended, and there's no smut here (sorry! LOL), but the story insisted on being told in its own fashion, so I hope it brings you some X-Filish Holiday Happiness nonetheless.:)

 **OASIS**  
by  
Elizabeth Rowandale  
Copyright (c) 2018

She was standing behind his desk when she asked. She had said she was going to stay just a little longer, finish sorting through the flood of crap in her inbox after so many days in the field. He should have been doing the same, but he really was not feeling it, and he had decided to call it a day, crash on his couch for a while, and try again in the morning.

So Mulder was pulling on his leather jacket and eagerly eyeing the door, when Scully said, "Mulder...are you busy tomorrow night?"

He paused, gloves pulled halfway from his pocket, eyebrows lifted, because suddenly the room he was in had become more interesting than the prospect of leaving. "Tomorrow night?" he questioned. "Other than a long-standing promise to myself to finally wash some of that laundry that's threatening to become self-aware in the corner of my bedroom, I think I'm free as a bird. Why, Scully, what did you have in mind?"

She drew a careful breath through parted lips, shifted her weight in a gesture he had learned signaled self-consciousness. He instinctively took a step nearer in a mixture of curiosity and offered reassurance.

"I'm, uh... I'm making dinner for my Mom tomorrow night," she said. "And she's bringing the man from her church whom she's been dating for a while. It's the first time she'll be introducing us."

Mulder nodded. "Well, that's nice, Scully. Good for your Mom."

Scully flashed a polite but not entirely convincing smile. "It is. It is nice, it's just..." She took a moment, moistened the edge of her lips with her careful tongue. "It's just a little...strange," she finished with narrowed eyes and a rare honestly. "And I was thinking it might feel less awkward...if you joined us."

"You want me there? I mean...historically situations tend to become _more_ awkward with the introduction of my presence, but...are you sure it's not a family kind of-"

Scully shook her head. "No, it's fine. Mom loves you, I know she wouldn't mind. She hasn't seen you in a while. And I...I would appreciate it." The words seemed ridiculously difficult for her to voice and after all that effort he honestly couldn't have said 'no' if he had wanted to. He didn't want to.

But he was so busy watching this fascinating display of elegant vulnerability on the musty landscape of the Hoover Building basement, that he took too long to reply. And Scully kept talking to fill what she must have assumed was an awkward pause. "He's the first person she's seen...at least that any of us know about...since Dad."

Mulder shook his head, asking for clarity. "Is this...bad?"

Scully pushed an errant pen further onto the desktop, wouldn't quite make eye contact. "No. No, it's...it's been four years, I would never judge her for not wanting to be alone. I don't think Dad would have wanted that for her. It's just...yeah, it's weird."

With what he hoped was an understated and understanding smile, Mulder took a small step closer and dipped his head to catch her gaze. It worked, it nearly always worked, and for a brief moment, her eyes returned his affectionate smile and flared a familiar warmth between them. "Fair enough," he said. "You cook for me, I'm there. What time?"

Which is how he got here, sitting in the wooden chair at Scully's kitchen table, enjoying the last bites of a delicious dessert following a fabulous meal.

Scully is smiling at her Mom, reminiscing over some clearly much-repeated family story about the dog and some stairs and a slipper, but Mulder is too busy taking in every detail of Scully's manner and sparkle that he hasn't entirely followed the poor dog's plight.

She is dressed in simple slacks and a soft, low-cut sweater. Her make-up is perhaps a tad darker than it is at work, and her earrings are flickering in the flattering light. She served a white wine with dinner and she has had a fair share for herself, leaving her more relaxed and open as the evening wears on. He's trying his damnedest to see her as his partner, to be nothing but the supportive friend tonight, and to stop noticing how ridiculously beautiful she is on this cozy landscape.

He realizes for the first time, as the two Scully women share a loving moment across the table, that when Scully laughs she can look amazingly like her mother. He finds himself wondering what Margaret Scully was truly like thirty or forty years ago. He wonders what image crosses Scully's mind when someone says, "your mother," and how different that might be from the woman he sees before him tonight.

"Well, this has been delicious, as always," Margaret says.

"Indeed it has," Phil adds. And Mulder realizes the tone has shifted to one of moving on. That perhaps Margaret and Phil are going to head out soon.

"Thank you," Scully says softly.

The four of them push back from their seats and trail toward the kitchen, each carrying dishes to the sink.

Maggie offers to help clean up, but Scully will have none of it, says she and Phil are the guests for the night; Maggie certainly did enough dishes for a lifetime when she was feeding four kids every night.

At the door, Scully hugs her mom goodbye, and she is just soft enough from the wine and the comfort of the evening to snuggle into the warmth of her mother's arms for a moment. Mulder feels privileged to be granted a glimpse of this touching exchange.

He and Scully each shake hands with Phil, Mulder giving the man a generous smile. Maggie grabs Mulder for a quick hug and he feels unexpectedly warmed by the gesture.

When the older couple has gone, Mulder tells Scully he will stay and help her clean.

"Okay," she says simply.

He trails after her toward the kitchen, and he has just grabbed a scrubber sponge and a bottle of soap when Scully rests light fingers on his arm and says, "You know what? It's late. We're tired. Let's just leave it for morning."

Mulder lets a light smile play across his lips. "But...I won't be here in the morning. Unless you're saying...?"

Scully surprises him when she holds his gaze solidly instead of ducking the teasing with downcast eyes and a tolerate smile per their usual banter. She lifts an eyebrow. "Well, then that's your chance to get out of the work," she says, but something in her tone seems in conflict with the words. The moment lingers for a beat, then Scully adds, "Come on, let's go enjoy the last of the fire." She snatches the wine bottle from the counter and deftly scoops up two glasses by the stems.

Mulder dries off his hands and follows her to the couch.

Scully sets the wine on the coffee table and pours two glasses, but Mulder waves her off of his, keeping it to half a glass. He's already had some himself, and he intends to slow his intake to a crawl, because a.) he still has to (presumably) drive home, and b.) he can see where this is going for Scully and he wants to be sober enough for both of them.

Scully takes a sip from her glass and settles comfortably into her couch. She tucks one foot beneath the opposite hip and keeps her legs crossed in an agile position that makes him wonder if she's been doing yoga, again.

The music Scully put on during dinner is still playing in the background, something more new-agey than Mulder might have expected from her (and maybe that's what made him think about the yoga), but then again Scully has always had her moments of mystifying spirituality stirred in amid all that hard science.

"Phil seems like a good guy," Mulder offers, leaning into the billowy cushions and shifting to face her. "Did you like him?"

Scully nods. She gazes into the depths of her wine glass as though some clearer answers might bubble to the surface. "I did," she says. "He does seem nice. He's funny. And Mom seems happy. I think this is good for her."

Mulder nods, hearing the sincerity in her words, but the hesitation as well. Scully's words are rarely single-layered.

"He's different from your Dad," he ventures.

He is rewarded with a quirk of the eyebrow. "Yeah," she confirms. "He is very different."

"Does that bother you?"

She looks up at that, either surprised by the idea or by the fact he has figured out that option. But she shakes her head. "No. I mean...we all have different people in our lives for different reasons, right? No one can ever tell from the outside...exactly what it is that makes a relationship work for the two people inside it. Some of the most seemingly unlikely pairings turn out to be the most lasting." She slows her last few words, tapping her carefully manicured nails against the stem of her glass.

They hold eye contact in the gentle light and there are more words spoken with their eyes than their lips. Scully is a little sparkly and flirty, and suddenly Mulder is quite sure he isn't imagining all the innuendo. She takes another sip of the wine, then lets the moment go and moves on. He's still caught on the slight wine dampness to her painted lips. "What about you, Mulder?" she asks.

"What about me, what?" He sounds like he's the one who's been drinking.

"Your parents. How did their relationship shape your own feelings about relationships. About marriage..."

Mulder breathes a while, shifts his position, giving her question proper consideration. "I haven't given it a lot of direct thought, but I know it has...informed my choices. It has to have."

"Did your parents love each other?"

His lips twitch toward a smile at the directness. The wine is working on her in unexpected ways. She is asking the forward questions that are her professional trademark, yet typically die on her tongue when it comes to subjects more intimate. What would it be like to hear Scully's thoughts on life and love as loudly and clearly as her beliefs in science and politics?

"I think they did, yes," he says honestly. "In the early years, especially. I don't know that it was ever the kind of equal, balanced, or...complete intimacy I would want for myself in a marriage. But it was real to them, and it worked."

Scully nods and takes another sip of wine. "And do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want marriage. I mean...is that something you always saw for yourself?"

Her manner is casual, low-key. But these are questions they haven't really asked, and he is not certain if in her wine haze she truly realizes this. Maybe she is just following the natural trains of thought her mother's new love interest have stirred up in her head, bringing him along for the ride as she thinks out loud. He tries to be nothing but honest in his reply. "Yeah, I think I saw marriage. Eventually. But my life has been about my work for so long now, I think that 'eventually' has become more detached from my reality than it used to be."

Scully gives a dry laugh. "Amen to that." She takes another sip of wine, and he half-consciously starts tracking the time and the ounces.

"How about you, Scully? What did you see for your life?"

She chuckles softly. "Not the FBI. Certainly not the X-Files."

"Understandable. Who would? But other than work. Did you think you'd have a family?"

She nods easily. "Yeah. I'm not...I mean, I ran from a lot of things for a long time. Protecting myself. Or so I thought. I like back doors. I don't think two people have to be married to be committed to each other. But I suppose I always expected some form of commitment somewhere along the way. And I wanted kids."

"Past tense?"

"No. It's just...I mean, this year has just been about...saving my own life?" she ventures with a half-shy smile. But it's true. Everything has been about that. And now they are here, not yet fully adjusted to the new normal. The ending where she survives, and they go back to work and move on with their lives. "I think I'm still...processing that."

Mulder takes this in, but doesn't push for more. He wants to say, "me, too," but he is afraid that is a little too presumptuous or...demanding. She has started feeding him glimpses and snatches of what she went through this past year, in unexpected moments - late night flights and tedious stakeouts. And he is willing to take the trickle at her pace.

He decides to skirt the subject, nudge just a little with questions she can take in whatever direction she wishes to go. "Do you have things you want to happen differently in the year ahead? New things you want to focus on?"

Scully sits and breathes for a long time; he can almost hear the cogs turning in her sharp little mind. She tilts her head for a moment, and there is an elegance to the curve of her throat in the firelight that belongs somewhere more beautiful than dark alleys and crowded basements, and he wonders for the hundredth time why she keeps following him into the shadows when she is made of so much light.

He is jarred out of any and all prosaic revelry when Scully abruptly recrosses her leg farther up and right across his own, stretching out her knee and holding up her footwear, twisting her ankle to show off her display, "Do you see these shoes?" she says.

Mulder swallows, throat horribly dry, and he considers reaching over her leg for his wine. "I do," he manages evenly. Like this is ordinary. "Lovely."

"Manolo Blahnik. $900."

"Nine HUNDRED dollars? What the f-"

"I bought these last spring," she continues. "Treated myself on the way home from a visit to the hospital. I was feeling like crap, in every possible interpretation of the phrase, and I decided if I was likely dying, what the hell was I waiting for. When life's shorter than you think, buy the damn shoes."

He can almost feel the color draining from his face and he hopes she can't see it in the soft light. "Scully..." _why didn't you tell me why didn't you call me why wasn't I there_

"My mother saw them a few days later, and I think she couldn't decide if I was affirming life or had given up and was trashing my life's savings. She was visibly caught between hope and devastation." Scully stops mid-motion as she is raising the glass once again toward her lips. "That's kind of poetic, isn't it? A portrait of our life on the X-Files. My life, at least...'caught between hope and devastation.'"

"You're surprisingly romantic when you're drunk, Scully."

Scully frowns, perhaps a shadow of what might have been the adorable pout of a four-year-old indignant Dana. "I'm not drunk."

His voice is gentle. "It's okay. I like the romanticism." He cannot resist the temptation to rest his hand on her outstretched calf for a moment. "And the shoes," he adds with a grin.

This time they hold eye contact for a bit too long. He sees the moment Scully truly registers the continued position of her leg and the intimacy of his hand upon it. "Okay," she says, softly. "I'm a little drunk."

"It's okay," he says again, nearly whispering this time. Meaning only to make her feel safe.

She hovers, just long enough that it is sensibility rather than coldness conveyed when she takes her leg away and crosses it neatly over her own once again.

"My point was," she resumes, "that the job we are working, it will consume us if we let it. That paying attention to what we want out of our lives...here, in our living rooms, when we come home at night...it will get swallowed if we let it."

"It will," he agrees.

"And are you okay with that?"

He draws a long breath, takes his words one at a time as he watches the rise and fall of the neckline of her sweater. "Not as okay as I used to be."

She nods and lets this stand.

They are comfortably companionable in silence for a while. It is, perhaps, what they do best.

"Thank you for coming tonight, Mulder," she says, gaze on the dwindling fire.

"Thank you for having me. I'm always game for good food and good company."

"The food I'll believe, but the company? You're not exactly a people person, Mulder."

"Not true, I'm just very choosy about who those people are. And I did say _good_ company."

She indulges a brief smile, but keeps her gaze on her own fingers.

"Can I ask you a question, Scully?"

She huffs out her breath with a trace of something like irony and takes another sip from her glass. "Now would be the time."

"Why do I have to wait until you're a little drunk to get you to talk to me?"

The room goes quiet for a long moment, alive and electric with thought and emotion, "Because you scare me, Mulder," she says at last.

His heart stutters. "I _scare_ you? Scully...I'm-"

"You scare me. Because with you...," she pulls a long breath through her nose, shifting to lean forward across her leg, "...I could fall so deep, so fast...I wouldn't have the strength to swim back up for air."

The room shimmers. Her hair is slipping to hide her profile.

He does not think before he speaks. "Well...what if it turned out we could help each other stay afloat?"

Scully gives a touched and incredulous laugh. She sets her glass on the table.

He doesn't know how to take this response, doesn't know where her mind has gone. "What?"

She turns just enough to speak to him over her shoulder, gaze still not above his thigh. "Mulder, do you remember when I told you that if they put you down in the desert, and told you the truth was out there, you'd start digging?"

"I do. I am still mildly offended by the tone."

"For a sometimes hopelessly cynical man, when it comes to your beliefs, you are inexplicably and uncrushably optimistic." A phrase only Scully could manage against the influence of all that wine.

"And?"

"And when you say things like that...about us..."

He waits.

"You make it sound like I'm one of those things you so passionately believe in. That you won't give up on." She is fascinated by some spot on the floor.

"Scully...you are. You're the most important one." The words are surprisingly easy for him to say. Because they are a simple truth. He almost lost her. And he won't lie to her now.

Scully rocks a little in place. Runs a tongue over her lips, but doesn't raise her eyes and doesn't speak.

Mulder reaches out and rests his hand on her back. He moves it slowly up her spine to her shoulder and back down again. The touch is intimate, but not seductive. It is meant to be simple and comforting.

Scully is the one to break the moment. "It's getting late," she says. "We have to get up in the morning." She pushes to her feet, but her head doesn't quite adjust to the elevation change as quickly as it should. "Whoa..."

He's on his feet in an instant, an arm across her back, the other catching her hand. "Hey. You okay?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm...," She takes a moment to steady her stance, draws a deliberate breath. "I'm okay. Just stood up too fast."

He slowly eases his hands away, and Scully offers him a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."

She retrieves his coat from her closet and walks him to the door, reasonably steady now in her $900 heels. "You sure you're good?" he says. "I can sleep on the couch, be around if you need me?"

Scully gives an indulgent smile as she faces him at the threshold. "I'm fine. Really. It's just a wine buzz. I'll sleep it off and probably be full of Ibuprofen and coffee by the time I get to work in the morning. But you can go home, I promise."

"All right. Call me if you need anything."

"I'm _fine_ ," she says, a little more insistent this time, and he knows when to back off. He lets her help him into his coat and reaches toward the door. "Thank you for the lovely evening, Ms. Scully."

She grins at him with the usual slightly sarcastic manner he has come to expect. "You should try food that hasn't been microwaved more often, Mulder. It does have its perks."

He rewards her with a chuckle, "You may have a point. One of these days, I just might have to learn to cook."

"Like a real grown-up."

"Oh, don't get carried away."

"Good night, Mulder," she says.

"Good night, Scully." He leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, but it is Scully who moves close, tucking into him, nuzzling into his collarbone, and his arms move up protectively around her.

He hears the soft catch of breath, and the transition is dizzying in its speed. One moment she is relaxed and warm and smiling with her eyes, and the next she is more vulnerable than he has seen in a very long time. "Scully...? Hey..."

"Just don't go anywhere," she whispers.

He cradles his hand to the back of her neck, buried in her tousled auburn waves. "I would never," he breathes. He presses his mouth to the top of her head.

It's painful now, to let her go. To walk away.

But as she moves a few inches back, he feels it. Her warm breath on the skin of his throat, the heat shimmering in the fine spaces between them. The vibration is like an oasis - inviting and delicious and it smells a little like home. She is easy to touch, her body open and pliable, breasts brushing against his chest. And when she says into the building desire, "You should go," he knows she is right. And he hates it.

He takes a step away. He watches her swallow and tuck her arms across her chest.

"See you in the morning?" he says.

She nods, "I'll be there."

He gives her one more look of question, asking confirmation with his eyes that she will never acknowledge in words.

She shifts her gaze and gives him the barest nod, but this one is real, this one is born of the intimate trust of a partner you count on for your life.

He steps into the hall, turns around and says, "Nine _hundred_ doll-" before she slams the door in his face.

He leans on the wall for a few minutes before he walks away.

His coat smells of her perfume. And something like home.

88888  
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End file.
